The little Mexican gave sudden vent to her pent-up laughter, clapping her hands in such an ecstasy of delight as to cause the unemotional Swanson to open his mild blue eyes in solemn wonder.

“He all right, I rink,” she exclaimed eagerly.  “He no so mooch fool as you tink him—­no, no.  See, senor, he busy eat all de time dat you talk; he has de meal, you has de fin’ air.  Vich ees de bettair, de air or de meat, senor? Bueno, I tink de laugh vas vid him.”

Mr. O’Brien, his attention thus suddenly recalled to practical affairs, gazed into the emptied frying-pan, a decided expression of bewildered despair upon his wizened face.  For the moment even speech failed him as he confronted that scene of total devastation.  Then he dashed forward to face the victim of his righteous wrath.

“Ye dom Swade, ye!” He shook a dirty fist beneath the other’s nose.  “Shmell o’ that!  It’s now Oi know ye ’re a thafe, a low-down haythen thafe.  What are ye sittin’ thar for, grinnin’ at yer betthers?”

“Two tollar saxty cint.”

The startled Irishman stared at him with mouth wide open.

“An’ begorry, did ye hear that, seenorita?  For the love of Hivin, it’s only a poll-parrot sittin’ there ferninst us, barrin’ the appetite of him.  Saints aloive! but Oi ’d love to paste the crature av it was n’t a mortal sin to bate a dumb baste.  An’ he ’s a Lutheran!  God be marciful an’ keep me from iver ketchin’ that same dis’ase, av it wud lave me loike this wan.  What’s that?  What was it the haythen said then, seenorita?”

“Not von vord, senor; he only vink von eye like maybe he flirt vid me.”

“The Swade did that!  Holy Mother! an’ wid an O’Brien here to take the part of any dacent gurl.  Wait till I strip the coat off me.  It’s an O’Brien that’ll tache him how to trate a lady.  Say, Swanson, ye son of a gun, ye son of a say-cook, ye son—­Sure, Oi ’d loike to tell ye what ye are av it was n’t for the prisince of the seenorita.  It’s Michael O’Brien who ‘s about to paste ye in the oye fer forgittin’ yer manners, an’ growin’ too gay in good company.  Whoop! begorry, it’s the grane above the red!”

There was a dull noise of a heavily struck blow.  A pair of short legs, waving frantically, traversed a complete semicircle, coming down with a crash at the edge of the bushes.  Through a rapidly swelling and badly damaged optic the pessimistic O’Brien gazed up in dazed bewilderment at the man already astride of his prostrate body.  It was a regenerated Norseman, the fierce battle-lust of the Vikings glowing in his blue eyes.  With fingers like steel claws he gripped the Irishman’s shirt collar, driving his head back against the earth with every mad utterance.

“Ay ban Nels Swanson!” he exploded defiantly.  “Ay ban Nels Swanson!  Ay ban Nels Swanson!  Ay ban shovel-man by Meester Burke!  Ay ban Lutheran!  Ay ban work two tollar saxty cint!  You hear dose tings?  Tamn the Irish—­Ay show you!”